


We Have a Saying

by Natashasolten



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Laurent POV, Laurent tops, M/M, Post-Kings Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natashasolten/pseuds/Natashasolten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five days after the death of Kastor, Laurent has personal thoughts about the past, and how much he has changed since Damen came into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have a Saying

**Author's Note:**

> In the books (and much of the fanfic) we get only Damen's point of view. We keep seeing how beautiful Laurent is through his eyes, which is immeasurably wonderful. But I love Damen, and I want to look at him, so I had to write this from Laurent's point of view so I could indulge in the beauty that is Damianos of Akielos.

In Arles, we have a saying. _When you are haunted, make the phantom your friend._

I remember when Alio, one of my tutors, a particularly astute observer of human character, gave me an assignment to write two pages on the meaning of that phrase. When I refused, he called me “troubled.”

He said, “Laurent, your great undercurrents of anger will take you to an early grave.”

I quipped back, “My anger will take me where I need to go!”

Instead, I did my assignment on the power of revenge. I gave him ten pages, not two, of beautiful, looping cursive on the all-consuming passions and pleasures of the concept of vengeance, arguing that any thoughts to the contrary, such as forgiveness, were not in the best interests of anyone, especially the victims, and that the world was made up of checks and balances anyway, and one had to either fight or retreat.

Alio said, “A young king should know these things. But a young king cannot make wise decisions in anger’s white heat.”

I hated him and demanded he be dismissed. Now, I look back and see he was without a doubt the smartest of my tutors. I wasted his time and his energy without compunction. But I didn’t know any better. I was only fifteen.

At thirteen, I wept every night for a year for Auguste until I had no more tears to give. The only person who knew this was my uncle who tried to console me. My uncle’s offers of consolation grew warped, and shamed me. Because it was all I knew, and because I was lonely, I confess I gave into him because I thought he was my friend. When he rejected me for being too old for his personal predilections, I felt myself tainted, used up and truly alone.

Anger became my friend. My strength. My wisdom. Through anger I could control accomplishment. I read every book on logical thinking and strategy. I spent hours a day learning horsemanship and weapons. For years I learned how to make my slighter stature an attribute and a strength, and even more so, to hone the powers of the mind.

I cut a cold figure, and if others did not warm to me, why should I have cared? I would be king, no matter. The rumors of my laziness, my insolence, were unfair. I was neither. But those who knew my strengths respected me at least. That was all I asked.

But my uncle took more and more from me. My problems multiplied. I trusted no one.

And then came the slave.

The vastness of my hate was like a dark drowning. I could not breathe. I could not think.

Must I account for how easy it was to torture him? To make him suffer? It was like coming up for air. My vile abilities refreshing, supping on the tensions of my body. What a strange thing to learn how soothing rage can be. How wonderful to spin in the dark turmoil, to leash my enemy to me and drag him down my own crippled path.

Revenge. White heat. All my “young king” pretty distractions had nothing to do with wisdom, or finery, or sweet and supple dreamings, and everything to do with hate.

I wanted him hurt, torn open, diminished. I wanted him suffering, humiliated, raped.

Such splendor in this! No one could hate as fiercely as I.

But the Akielon. Damen. _Damianos._ He refused to properly respond. He did not break. All my moves, all my plans only seemed to fuel some inner determination from him. He would look at me as if I were the insane one.

I have no illusions. Death, mourning, incest—none of that is on the list of the makings for sanity. We do not live as wardens to an asylum, not even we crown princes, we young kings. We live as inmates, patients, all of us, straining through barred windows toward some temper of light.

Damen was chained in gold, scarred, threatened, a stranger in a strange land, and yet his gaze never lost that light. How could that be? I railed at it. It made me breathless. How could suffering be so beautiful? How could it reveal any radiance? The poison was of salt and tears, horror and pain. And yet the deeper that poison went into him, the quieter his dignity became. He’d acquired everything I’d spent years to achieve only he did not succumb to iced loathing, or a numb penchant for destruction.

When I gave him a knife, he did not use it against me. Weren’t we enemies? But he would only look at me, as slaves are not wont to do, with unwavering power and soft questioning, as if he knew me at some level I had not visited since I was a child. As if he could fluently read the language of my life beyond all the suffering, words I had long forgotten.

What was he seeing?

To learn the answer to that question was my goal, though I did not know it at the time.

Yes, all of my story with Damen was about winning kingdoms, righting wrongs, seeking justice. Revenge.

But what did he see when he looked at me? That is my soul’s story. The one where I found out how the players on the chessboard manipulated the kings, how we both had life-and-death decisions to make. Would we fight or retreat? We had no idea that united we would become more than the sum of our parts.

Since Auguste, I have never been able to tell—to shout—at the world of my love. Now I want to call it out from the battlements, hear my words echo off the cobbled streets, the brick walls, the courtyards, the gardens, the gabled rooftops.

In Akielos they have a saying. _Keep your friends close, your enemies closer._

“Enemy” means “not friend” in Akielon. The root meaning of “friend” is “to love.”

All my hours of study, all my plans and my ability to rationalize strategy, battle language, even the language of poetry and song, and my mind still mixes them up. Enemy. Friend. Not-friend. To love. Not-to-love.

So many weeks and months have passed now since the first time I saw him. Since my hate overflowed.

Tonight the moon tracks the sky. Full-bodied. Serene. It does not know all that has gone on this past week in Ios has been anything but placid, tranquil, safe. It does not know of blood spilt, allegiances crushed, trust decapitated. The human game is not its measure.

But the old light moves into the room in spreading currents. And there is some peace in it. Some noble, royal composure.

I am in Akielos now. My old tutor, Alio, would be pleased, I think, so see me as I am, shifted from turmoil and ten pages of revenge to this: a young man in a chiton fastened by two gold lion pins, my hair loose against my shoulders, my lungs hitching not from hatred, but from the grace allowed when one opens fully to the self, and the blood that comes rushing out is clear and pure and sweet. My eyes no longer feel tight but my vision still brims with power.

I did not know the path to this lesson even existed. I did not know I was on it.

I was only fifteen when I had Alio dismissed. I am still not yet twenty-one. And there is always more to learn.

Damen is my tutor now. My not-enemy. Not-slave. Not-hated friend.

This is the setting: Two white columns on either side of the bed support the high ceiling. Behind the bed is a simple mural on a white wall of ruined archways flanked by palm trees, and a distant, cool blue sea. The coverlet on the bed is lavender. The sheets are white. Above the sea is an orange and pink light. Where I stand at the deep-set, white-framed window the moon rocks over my head. In the mural, the sun is setting over Damen’s head.

It has been five days since I killed his brother. Since Kastor stabbed him. Damen is the kind of man it seems no one can take down. Not by me and my rationalized, hate-revenge. Not by an entire, organized army of Veretian soldiers. And certainly not by the tiny, slim blade of a knife.

He lies among the sheets and pillows, restless, agitated, five days worth of boredom during his recovery making him sleepless, and so sweetly frustrated.

“Laurent,” he says so softly his tongue does not pronounce the “t.” His body is dark bronze against the white sheets, the moon so bright we’ve no need for oil lamps or candles. A warm breeze from the sea distributes its tartness throughout the room. Gentle waves lap the shore. The sound they make is what you hear when you put your ear to the naked chest of the one you love.

Damen is lying on his side and his eyes are bright and dark. There is no damage in them that I can see, and yet there should be. From what his brother has done to him. From what I have done. But they are wide and open. The muscles are gentle, relaxed about the edges of his eyelids. His eyelashes glimmer and shine. His hair is gathered about his neck, a little tangled, waves of dark brown curls like silk strands upon the pillow. One curl tumbles in the center of his forehead and at once I can see the lovely boy he must have been, sweet and honest. A friend to all.

Part of the sheet covers him just above the hips, and it is a shame because his beauty lives beyond description and should not be covered.

I once told him he looked like a whore. But I was furious back then, and stunned into even greater outrage because he was not the ugly monster I wanted him to be.

His broad shoulders curve down to his sculpted arms. His muscles bulge beneath smooth skin, but they are lean and graceful. The flat curves of his chest lead to rippled muscles at his stomach but the waist is lean, the hips narrow, the thigh muscles ample but long, stream-lined more so now than when I met him because of everything he’s been through: my tortures, epic battles, knife injuries.

“Laurent, please,” he says in flawless Veretian. He’s smiling. “I’m so bored! Come to bed and entertain me.”

I can deny him nothing. I will try. I will always try. But I give in so easily these days. To his voice. His gaze. His devotion. A warmth so honest I feel unworthy.

I have held back from him for five days. Because of his stab wound. Afraid to hurt him. But he has been moving around so well today. Walking in the gardens. Sitting up at a table long enough to eat a meal. Going on his own to the baths insisting I need not hover. (I pretended not to hear and hovered anyway.)

I move through the creamy pools of moonlight to the edge of the bed. Damen holds out his arms and tilts his head so that the light shifts through his beautiful hair.

I raise my hand and unclasp the lion pins and my chiton falls to the tile.

“Please let me just hold you. Feel you.” He’s always saying things like that, hopeless in his romanticism, relentless in his gentle patience.

“Unless you yelp in pain, I’ll do more than that.” I watch as his eyes move over my body like an embrace. The hunger in them is different from the other men I’ve encountered in my past. Less about him. More about me and what I want. Need. Crave. He is astute that way. He’s the kind of guy who makes sure others around him get fed before he eats. I can’t think right around him. I’ve never known anyone like him.

I slide into his arms and it feels like it’s been far too long since the last time we made love. I’ve slept by his side every night since Kastor stabbed him, but only to sleep.

Damen is already hard when I press against him. But it’s as if he doesn’t even notice. He’s intent on me, hands on my arms, my shoulders, lips nuzzling underneath my jaw. His hands move up and comb through my hair. I never tire of him doing that. He holds me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

His lips are pink and sure and slightly parted as they move toward mine. The kiss takes me past coherence. I float inside that gesture for long, breathtaking moments.

When Damen makes love, it is heart stopping. He does not take, he gives. Even when he seems to be taking, he is giving. The way his mind works, he does not know how to receive without thought to immediate recompense. This is why he could not understand Kastor’s duplicity, Jokaste’s deception. For awhile there, he thought even my uncle could be brought to reason. Damen would never take what is not his, so he cannot see that others might until it is pointed out to him. This is one of the things I love most about him. It is why together we are stronger, because I can see the lies he cannot. I can rule beside him, his innocent compassion always tempered by my suspicion. Together, our kingship will be mighty but just.

Damen starts to roll toward me. Normally I would pull him into my embrace, spread my legs. But I shift back from the kiss and whisper, “No. Lie back. Lie back. This is about you tonight.” I know it will make him crazy at first. He’ll want to touch me. Want to give. I say into the shell of his ear beneath his curls, “Just let me. Let me do this.”

He moves back onto the pillows. One knee is bent. His cock rests up against his abdomen. The small, white sticky bandage that covers his stab wound glows. I trace my forefinger around it, looking up at his face. “Okay?” I ask.

He nods. “It doesn’t hurt unless I sit up too fast.”

“Don’t sit up.”

He lets out a low laugh.

I take my time with him. He suffers so beautifully. Besides, he likes it.

I move between his legs, lean over him and press my palms to either side of his face. His cheeks are warm and freshly shaved, the skin like satin. His lips are slightly damp. I press my mouth to his. He inhales sharply through his nose. Opens to me. His hands move up and down my sides, though I did not say he could touch me. But I love how feather-light his fingertips are, how his touches are made of light.

I pull back and whisper of his beauty. His eyes close tight. His cheeks widen. In the moonlight he’s both pleased and shy. I kiss the closed eyelids. The broad forehead, the tops of his cheekbones where the fineness of his lashes caress.

I move my head down to kiss his neck, shoulders, chest. I lick one taut nipple, then the other. His moans travel in a circle about the room.

His hands still lightly clasp at my waist. I move away from them, touch them, bring each palm to my lips. I move my mouth over each finger, then let go and press my face into this flat stomach, taking care to avoid the bandage.

His muscles quiver. I worry about the wound, but he makes no sound of pain.

His hands are in my hair now. I move lower, licking toward his thighs. He is lovely. How I’ve missed this. I kiss my way back and forth, over the taut, muscled skin, then nuzzle and suck at his balls.

I do this thing with him that I swore I’d never do. I do it because it is him. Because he never expects it. Never asks. This makes it my decision and ultimately my desire. Damen understands this implicitly without words, without us ever having to speak of it.

His cock moves up a little, swaying. I lick up the shaft and lave the head. His body jerks. I lift up to assess that he is not in pain. His mouth is open, his chest rising and falling. His hair is such a bright darkness about him on the pillow. His eyes are closed.

I take him into my mouth. He cannot help but roll his hips a little. I use my hands to hold him in place and savor him.

When I feel him at the straining point, I ease up and off.

“Laurent.”

I never get tired of him saying my name. But there is a tone that makes me look up, eyebrows raised. He says in Veretian, “The last time. We never—I know what you wanted.”

I smile at him deviously, and say in Akielon, “I got what I wanted.”

“No.” He motions me toward him.

I move up in the bed and over him, my own cock flushed and erect in empathy for what I was doing to him.

In soft Veretian, his eyes big and shiny with desire, he says, “Please. We never finished. Not really. And then you were taken away.” He blinks.

I run my hand through his curls, smoothing the hair from his forehead. This is Damen. Giving. Always giving.

“I’m afraid the strain will—“

He laughs, interrupting. “Strain? I’m a young man. The strain is if you make me wait any longer!”

He speaks my language without effort. And I, well, I can’t think around this man so I find myself searching for the Akielon words and going blank. He laughs again.

“Laurent, I want you every minute of every day. Please!”

In Veretian I say, “If I do, and your wound starts hurting, promise you will tell me.”

“Promise.” He says it a little too quickly. Damen doesn’t lie intentionally. And he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. But now that he is begging, I am suspicious.

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

He smiles. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I will do this my way. And you, you will lie back and relax, or none of this is going to work.”

“Naturally,” he says.

I love being fucked, but this—this is my fondest dream. My heart pulses in my chest like a feral thing.

After so many ordeals these past weeks, Damen looks healthier than ever. Ready. Trusting.

I’ve planned this over and over in my head. Now all those plans are receding. It’s just Damen before me. And our desire for each other. Our love.

I sit up and brush my hands along his legs, which open wider. I push a pillow under his hips, watching to see if he winces at all from his wound. Nothing.

He sees me watching him and laughs softly. “I’m fine. Don’t you want me?”

I roll my eyes.

“I want you to want me,” he whispers.

He’s laid out before me like a sculpture finely wrought, his pose one of wanton need, love. I think about being sarcastic. Making a cutting remark. Something witty. Smart. Instead, I reply, “I do.” And there is a soft heat behind my eyes.

I go about setting him on fire all over again using hands, mouth, trailing my hair across his hips, rubbing my whole body against him.

He calls out my name when I use the oil on him, slippery upon my fingers which tease and enter him effortlessly. He has never been a difficult lover. Damen is open to everything.

The oil is scented with sandalwood.

Still, I make him wait. I tease him because I can. Because it’s what I do. He gives me compliments. His way of encouraging me. Or maybe he really means them. He tells me that I’m lovely and warm and a royal brat for making him wait any longer.

That last expression is not what you say to someone who is sucking your cock, but he speaks those words anyway, challenging me.

I come up over him and quiet him with my lips. He pulls me down, tries to lift up. My cock finds a nesting place between his buttocks.

“You promised,” I chastise. “Not to move.”

“I promised to tell you if you hurt me.” His hand moves between us. I push it away.

He sighs heavily.

I rest my weight against him and feel my cock slide. Everything in me is vibrating. My veins, my lungs, my very bones. He feels so good. I kiss his neck, pet his hair, and already ecstasy is about to break over me and I haven’t even breached him. Yet I have. In every area that counts. This last step is merely a gesture. I am already ripped apart.

I pull my hands down, draw one arm up under his thigh and with the other hand I guide my way into him. His hands are on my shoulders. I lean down. And move.

He says “Yes” twice. Once in Veretian. Once in Akielon.

I say his name. “Damen.” Not Damianos, which I also love, but just “Damen.” Because that is his name for his closest friends. And I am the not-enemy, now. The word that means “to love.”

 He lifts his head to me. His stomach muscles tense and for a moment I am afraid. His wound. He has endured so much pain. He deserves no more of it. And none ever again from me.

His eyes are alight with the moon. His hair like ripples on a dark sea. He is my autumn king with the sun setting behind him on the painted wall.

I want to shout it from the battlements. _I love you._

Damen grasps my hips. His heels dig into my thighs.

I want to cry it into the wind. _Until all the worlds end._

There can be no more questions between us. And no more barriers. We have both been hurt enough. Now is our time for pleasure. Now is our time for concord between two kingdoms. Between us.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I write fanfic under Natasha Solten, and original m/m fic under Wendy Rathbone. Check out my latest novel, "The Moonling Prince," and my others on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Wendy-Rathbone/e/B00B0O9BMS/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1).
> 
> Click [here](http://eepurl.com/cqDVcX) to subscribe to my newsletter!
> 
> I am also a prolific and award-winning poet. I write a lot in science fiction and fantasy genres, but my contemporary trilogy: The Foundling, None Can Hold the Dark and The Lostling are also popular.
> 
> This is my first Captive Prince fanfic. I am an idiot in love over this series. Thanks for reading!


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